I Am Not Gone
by L.M.Cade
Summary: In the future, the world is being torn to pieces: countries have fallen, technology is not trusted, and violence reigns. And still, the eternal conflict between the United Kingdom and France rages on. Arthur Kirkland hadn't expected much from life as a member of the United Agency -nothing more than a endless string of missions and murders. His final job in Paris would change that.
1. Prologue

** Prologue**

I awoke certain it was going to be one of those days.

A bad habit of rolling around in bed for several hours before arising had been developed over the past few years, since it seemed to help the day move along much faster and to my liking. I tried my hardest to never open my eyes until I was ready, but that morning, there was no getting around it.

Forcing them open, the noises I had heard as a dreamy blur suddenly became clear, piercing my eardrums with a new power. There was a tea kettle starting to screech in the kitchen. The television was blasting and there was an overall clamor throughout the house. I didn't give my mind time for a second thought against rising out of bed.

As I entered the hallway, I took note that Matthew had set up his portable hockey net –again– just outside of the kitchen without permission. He was racing across the room in his socks, using that queer-looking stick to send a puck flying across the hardwood floors…Never would I understand such a sport. All I could do was sigh.

"Matthew." The name was spoken alone, in no other way than the pure authority I tried to use when it came to matters like these. Somehow, he still went on playing.

"Sorry Dad –I'll be done in a second." As always, I could hardly hear the boy's whisper over the noise of the house. The puck darted past my feet once again, slamming into the net for another goal. The only victory I celebrated was being able to step over the plastic posts.

The tea kettle was brought down to a simmer, finally taking an ounce of chaos out of the air. The situation could be measured now that the infernal noise was gone. Who had made tea anyway…? I poured myself a cup regardless and took a sip.

_Weak. How I hated weak tea._ It took all of my power not to grimace at the taste. I looked to the couch.

"Alfred, did you make this?"

The elder child only looked away from the screen for a moment. He refocused on his game with a shake of his head. What a mistake to pick up those things for him on the Black Market last Christmas…I'd been regretting the decision ever since his addiction began. I was shocked when he actually gave an answer. "Mattie did; the biscuits on the table are mine, though. You can have some if you want."

Animosity almost overcame me in my early morning grumpiness. "You know I don't like biscuits –why didn't you bake me scones instead?"

"Didn't wanna."

My eyebrow twitched, but as I sat down at the kitchen table, I instructed myself to let it go. These children were growing up quite differently than I had expected them to….I couldn't help but suppose that such things only came naturally from being a practically single parent in New Age France.

Another sip of tea. Weak tea…

…How I remembered weak tea. My first cup had been in France, and managed to become such a precious memory…it appeared to be the only reason why I tolerated the taste. Some odd feeling was eating away at my stomach, making me glad that Matthew had made weak tea that morning. Tea just like his father's. A somewhat saddened smile appeared on my lips.

"Did you sleep better?" Matthew hopped up into my lap, nearly knocking me in the head with the child-sized hockey stick. I would have let myself get smacked with such a silly thing to get a hug like this. I was so engrossed I could hardly manage an "it was fine."

Matthew was seven now.

Alfred was nine.

When I looked back on the years, I could hardly believe that my children were growing up so fast. The time ticked on without warning, which to most was a frightening concept. To me…it was a heavy comfort.

Peering over Matthew's shoulder, I saw Alfred pause his game and come over to the table. Immediately he grabbed a biscuit from the wicker basket and stuffed it into his mouth, taking a seat beside his brother and I. The look on his face told me that a thought had entered his mind.

"When's Papa gonna be back again?"

I paused in mid-drink. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, it should be getting close, shouldn't it?" He tried to swallow his food in an attempt to speak with more clarity. "He cooks a lot better than I do…and definitely better than you. I miss his breakfast…"

"It's the twenty-sixth," Matthew spoke up from my lap. "That means three days…three more until the twenty-ninth."

For the first time in weeks, our house lay quiet.

"…Lord knows we need him," I spoke through the silence, setting down my cup on the table with a slight clank. "Well, I do at least." It was a hard thing to admit, and neither child responded otherwise; Matthew only wrapped his arms tighter around my neck, Alfred's eyes becoming glued to the ground.

We all knew that our family was broken. It had been since the day it was formed. Looking into the eyes of any one of us, it was fairly obvious to see that there was something lacking…some gaping space that nothing else was able to fill.

It was the same reason that morning I so desperately needed weak tea…

I put on a fake smile for the kids, one to mask the pain I was feeling. A smile like this from me would convince everyone but Francis… "There's no use moping around until he comes," I assured them both, giving Matthew a ruffle of his hair. I knew exactly what to do. With a furtive look in my eyes, I made a proposition.

"How about until then…I tell you two a story?"

Alfred's head shot up at once, and Matthew audibly gasped. "You mean _the_ story!?" The elder child asked as he bounced in his chair. He gave a little laugh. "I was wondering when you were going to ask!"

"I just love this story…" Matthew's cheeks went rosy at the thought. "Please Daddy, can we start now?"

A strange sound leaped from my throat –no, that was a laugh. I couldn't remember the last time I had heard the noise come from myself. "Now? Well, let's see…" I stood up, Matthew still in my arms. Together our parade began to walk towards the master bedroom. Once inside, I approached the bookshelf at the far corner of the room. My fingertips lingered on a particularly large book bound in red, gold detailing on its spine. "We'll need this," I told the two as I attempted to wave the thing in the air. A step or two over to my desk. "And we'll need those…" I lowered Matthew down a bit, allowing him to pick up the reading glasses for me. I heard both giggle; it was nice to know I could still make them laugh.

"Finally," I said as I plopped onto the bed, "We'll need a comfy seat." A feeling of joy and surprise swept over me when Alfred too even cuddled up to my chest –a rare occasion in the Kirkland household. The smile I gave was true. "Who wants to tell me where to begin?"

"At the beginning…?" Alfred shrugged.

"No, at the apartment," Matthew specified for him. "That's where it starts, right?"

"You're both right, don't worry." I ran my hand down the front page of the scrapbook, taking delight in once again seeing handwriting long forgotten . _Je ne suis pas parti_ it read…such precious words I would never forget.

_I am not gone…_more and more each day I realized, Francis had spoke the truth that night, all those years ago. Even if he wasn't around all the time, he had kept his promise to us.

In that moment, I decided: this time around, I wanted to tell my children the **full** story –not only the pretty bits like I did every time before. They deserved more than that…

"What would you fellows say…if I told the story a bit differently this time?" I pushed past the lump in my throat. "I can't guarantee that it will be as happy, or that you'll like it any more than before, but it will be everything. The whole truth."

"You mean there's more!? And we've never heard it?" Alfred could hardly contain himself beside me. "But you always said–"

"I know what I said." The phrase came out harsher than I had originally intended. "The things I've kept from you…I've done for your own protection. I knew that I'd have to tell you sometime, and I guess…I guess now seems best."

Matthew tugged on my shirt, trying to capture my attention. "I'd like to hear…but, one thing…"

"What's that, love?"

"…Can you keep the beginning the same…? I like the beginning…"

I grinned. "For you, I'll try my hardest."

I inhaled a deep breath, flipping the page, telling myself that if I didn't start now, I never would.

"_That morning, Francis Bonnefoy received a phone call…"_

* * *

_Wrote to: Spirit of Eden -Full Album by Talk Talk_


	2. The Day They Met

_Did you get the file then?_

_Yes; it's sitting on my bed as we speak._

_Great. I want you to know that thing inside and out –feel like you could read this guy's mind if you needed to._

_I don't know, Boss. It's been awhile since I've had a case like this. I'm not sure I can do it._

_Just calm down, alright? This mission's going to be a piece of cake –no killing. Threw that in there just for you._

_Good, you know how I feel about the killing._

_Yeah, yeah, whatever. Your good at this job and you know it. Which is why you need to be quick and efficient today. I can't afford to deploy my best man on a useless mission._

_Useless? With all due respect sir, I wouldn't have been contacted at all or told to memorize an entire man's profile if it wasn't important. So what's the deal then?_

_No, it's nothing really. We need you to pick this guy up; let's just say he's not exactly what you would call a welcomed visitor in this country. Get him to where he's going, know what you need to know, and keep an eye on him. He may be important, maybe not. Oh…and Francis?_

_Yes?_

_No funny business. __**We're running out of room for mistakes.**_

A flat tone filled the wire of the phone as Boss decided it was time to end the conversation. Francis sighed, figuring there was no way around it, and sat the device back down on its holder. He hated days like these: days where he had to go out and work instead of sitting in his apartment nice and quiet. It wasn't even the work that bothered him; that he was fine with. It was this city…it had become poisonous.

The file had sat there all morning, its pale cream surface bright in the early morning sun coming through the window beside his bed. Francis hadn't dared to touch it. Subconsciously he'd been replaying scenes from his _last_ mission like this ever since the file's arrival, and that whole incident had been over a year ago. All he could do was pray that this time, things would go differently.

Procrastination had never really been a strong point of his, so as soon as Francis sat down on top of the comforter, the folder was in his hand, opened a few pages in. He read something about the fellow being from England; no wonder nobody else wanted this case. Francis skimmed through the rest of the information with a dull expression, suddenly uninterested in his day entirely. There seemed no point in going out if he couldn't at least have…

And then there it was: his motivation, paper-clipped to the front page. Francis laid the file out flat on his lap, staring into the face of the most handsome man he had ever seen.

He knew that most probably wouldn't classify him as handsome. The man in the photo smiled awkwardly, as if he wasn't used to doing such a thing. His eyebrows were ungodly thick and dark brown, clashing with his flaxen hair, but suiting well the rich green eyes he bore.

As Francis ran a thumb over the face in the photograph, he read in silence the two written lines in black ink below. Arthur Kirkland, age twenty-six. It was so British that Francis almost felt the need to laugh.

There seemed no point in finishing the reading, not when he could go hop in his car and meet the man for himself. This seemed to be a slightly flawed plan to Francis in the long-run; now that he had seen how charming this man was, not only was he ten times more nervous about being his escort, but thinking of this as work would be just as difficult. Francis knew that he had always had a particular soft spot for good-looking men –and so did Boss. Perhaps this would explain the "no funny business" comment earlier on the phone. Boss already knew too well that wooing the man would be the only thing on his mind.

Francis smirked at himself, because honestly, he couldn't remember the last time he actually followed one of Boss' orders anyway.

He rushed over to the small closet which doubled as a pantry, knowing that he would need a change of clothes. British men, being the asses they were, always dressed like it was the most important day of their lives. Francis knew that if he were to make an impression at all, he would have to equally meet this quality of status. Without hesitation, he pulled out his only and finest black suit, a black buttoned shirt for underneath, and a light pink tie. He wriggled out of his old clothes and into the new ones in a flash, admiring himself in the mirror as he straightened his tie.

"You, my friend, should dress like this more often," he spoke to himself as he watched the other Francis in the mirror flip his hair. Picking up a cheap bottle of cologne, he sprayed a shot or two against his wrists, then taking the time to dab a few more drops along his jaw-line, feeling the stubble against his fingers. It wasn't anything too fancy, but French cologne was French cologne, and he'd never known it to fail him before.

Francis checked himself over one last time in the glass before grabbing the picture from the stack of paper. There was no need to bring the rest; all he needed was right here. A face to look for in the crowd. Anything more he desired to learn about Arthur, he would learn from Arthur himself. Tucking the photo into his pocket, Francis took a final deep breath and headed for the door. He would force himself to handle whatever Boss threw at him today, because no mission was ever as easy as he planned in his head.

But whether Boss wanted to admit it or not, Francis was the _real _backbone of the Alliance –he was the one who called them all together in the first place, had asked for their help, had organized them…gave them purpose again.

That did not by any means however, mean he was proud of what they had become…

* * *

Charles de Gaulle station was more crowded than usual. Not that he was complaining by any means, though. Naturally, more people means more cover, but it can also pose the problem of making a target harder to zero out. He wasn't worried about that today, not when he already knew the face he was looking for like it was his own.

Francis tapped his foot impatiently against the floor as he held Arthur's picture in his hand, trying to decide whether to keep eyeing the photograph, or watch the people now shuffling out of the 12:30 train and into the light of the late airport. The distrust of technology and machine had done much damage to this country and the world it existed in over the years –including the mass termination of airplanes. Only very simple things were kept…things that weren't previously connected to acts of war. Citizens went back to the old way of travel, leaving a giant airport in the city rather useless for its intended purpose; so like almost everything, it was forced to convert.

He could tell that it had been a short ride, a half an hour at most from the coast, as all the riders were chipper and alert, oohing and awing at the vast ceilings and large glass windows the same way all the passer-throughs did.

Then from nowhere, Francis caught sight of his face. He was sure his heart stopped for a moment once he spotted him.

Near the end of the pack emerged a tall sandy-haired man in a brown business suit, lugging a large rolling suitcase in a rather sloppy manner behind him, looking either half asleep or very angry. Although Francis had his money on both, he was slightly disappointed in not seeing the lovely smile like in his photograph. He furrowed a giant pair of eyebrows at the crowd as he quickly moved among the masses, pushing on towards a small refreshment stand over near the far corner of the station. It was clear as day just looking at him: he wasn't like the others. Arthur hated this place.

A grin began to creep across Francis' lips as the man headed for the register to order something. Within seconds of opening his mouth, he had managed to get into some form of heated argument with the cashier, eventually throwing up his hands and waiting by the counter for his drink. A woman offered a cup to him, which was snatched away with a sour expression. Unfortunately, it only took one sip, and the drink was spewed from his mouth, not even halfway back to the little table he had selected.

This could easily be taken as his cue; Francis stood up and stuck the picture back into the depths of his pocket, leaving the plush chair behind as he sauntered towards the man now feverishly wiping at the stain on his suit. He seemed to go unnoticed at first, standing at the side of the table as his nerves tightened. Arthur jumped slightly when Francis cleared his throat, turning to see the man. With muscles taunt, he reached into the breast pocket of his suit to retrieve a hanky, now held out in one hand. It was easy to see that Arthur was observing the pink thing with distaste. Francis was terrified to find himself unable to speak, so instead shoved the hanky towards the man's chest, trying to offer it for his stain. The hanky was taken with an edge of spite.

"Damn French can't make a single cup of good tea –or speak a lick of sensible English," the man seemed to say to himself. There was a recognizable British accent in his voice, the first Francis had ever heard in person. "Never have, never will!"

Francis wished he could have said something, but Arthur went right on talking. "Only two teas –_two teas! _In the entire station! Would you believe that? A man could go crazy with only two flavors of tea at his disposal, especially two as terrible as this." Arthur finally began to throw his dirty napkin to the side and took a stab at using Francis' hanky. Seeing as there was nothing else to be done, Francis took a seat in the chair across from the gentleman as he rattled on.

"There wasn't any tea at all on the train over, either. It's almost as if once you cross the border, tea is completely nonexistent. Which is why I've been bloody well sent here, I suppose." Arthur stopped to lick his thumb, rubbing the saliva against the tea splotch. "Don't think anyone here would want to buy any tea anyway, the fools," Arthur said, looking up to Francis for the first time. He was sure he looked frightened. "Is it crazy that I haven't gotten a single smile or a 'hello' since I've got here? Or is that normal? Because I know that people here are terribly rude, but that shouldn't mean that they get to use that as an excuse to lack a little **humanity**, right?"

It seemed as if the Englishman was done with the cloth as he sat it down in front of him on the table, but he certainly wasn't done talking. He let out an annoyed sigh and continued. "I usually don't complain this much, but in a place so horrid I guess I'm finding it hard to control myself –especially since now I'm sitting here like an old git complaining to some man who can't understand a word of what I'm saying. I do apologize. You'd be better off just to take this and leave." He nodded toward the hanky.

Francis sat motionless for a moment, trying to take in all of what Arthur had just said. Finally, he licked his lips, and found the courage to talk. "Please, keep it," he insisted, reaching over and folding the cloth neatly before setting it back down on the Britt's side of the table. "You never know when the next time you're feeling adventurous enough to try some more terrible tea will be." The man stared at Francis blankly, somewhat alarmed, possibly either at the fact that this man had just managed to speak perfect English to him, or at the unsightly pink shred that he obviously did not want as a souvenir. He felt obligated to take it anyway.

Francis couldn't help but laugh as Arthur slowly grabbed the hanky off the table. "And I'm sorry if that's truly how you feel, but you should know that Paris is the last place to come for anything English, especially tea."

The man seemed to flinch out of his daze. "You're clearly French. How do you know English?"

"My job requires me to," he answered with all honesty. "Consider yourself lucky to have someone to complain to. As I'm sure you're aware of, the language has become a sort of taboo in recent years."

"…You wouldn't be able to tell me where to find a decent cup of tea then, would you?"

"I'm afraid not," Francis said, "Not a single Frenchman could. You should be lucky those people had any at all. It's outcasted for good reason –stuff is horrible."

For a moment, the man made a noise that was somewhat akin to a chuckle. "It is when prepared like this. That I can admit to. I've never had such weak tea." While talking, he pulled a small clear package containing a white pouch from his breast pocket, waving it about. Francis wondered if all British men kept such strange things in their pockets instead of hankies. "**This** is real tea," he informed Francis, removing the tiny pouch from its packaging; there was a blue marker on the end of a string labeling it _New English Teas_. "I was hoping to save this, but…" The pouch was stuck into the café cup, and Arthur let it swim in the water a moment before taking another sip. This time, he managed to swallow. Francis could tell by his facial expression that it wasn't much better, the old tea obviously tainting it.

After a few more gulps, Arthur shot Francis a brilliant smile that nearly melted his heart. "Well at least now I know there's at least one decent cup of tea in France, and one decent English-speaking Frenchie to match. A cheers to you, good sir." Even if he was very pleased by this, Francis could tell he was indirectly being told to leave.

He had never been one to give up a fight this easily. "Say, if you're a man who likes his wine as much as his tea, perhaps we can go grab a few glasses together and have a proper cheers."

Arthur appeared to choke on the gulp he had just taken. When the man recovered from his coughing fit, he spoke. "I'm sorry if this comes off as incredibly rude, but I don't even know who the hell you are." So then it wasn't in British custom to invite a partial stranger out for a drink this early in the day…how disappointing.

"Oh, excuse my impudence," Francis decided to flatter Arthur anyway, rising from the chair to bow before the man. "Francis Bonnefoy, at your service. I am under the presumption that you are a Mr. Arthur Kirkland, no?"

Two emerald-green irises eyed him with clear skepticism. "Yes, that may be my name, but I'm not sure what gives you the right to know it."

"Your company hired me," he told Arthur plainly, "I'm your chauffeur for the day."

Arthur made a small noise. "I was beginning to wonder why a Frenchman required such a dashing suit." Francis could see the gentleman was taking note of his officious looking black garb. Francis himself would be the first to admit that black normally wasn't a suiting color for himself, but today, it was just right. Regardless, Arthur was still suspicious. "So then. Which branch hired you? Who can I thank for taking the time to find me an English-speaking Frenchie who they probably paid extra to listen to me complain?"

"You ask so many questions, Mr. Kirkland," he answered indirectly with a laugh. "I'm just the driver; they don't have to tell me much of anything as long as I'm getting paid." He had been prepared for that question to be asked. All was a lie, though. No one from Arthur's company had hired him. Francis knew way more about Arthur than he was leading on. But worst of all, he wasn't getting paid a single Franc. Arthur simply nodded a slow nod, buying into the answer. Remnants of a sneer appeared on his face.

"Alright then, Mister Bonnefoy. Where's the car?"

* * *

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Francis' bright blue eyes flashed in the rear-view mirror. He saw Arthur staring out the window in the back seat. His arms lay crossed against his chest, a longing yet clearly disinterested look on his face. "Same old buildings that have been here since anyone can remember. Only difference now is that at night they become painted in a fresh coat of blood and then the people try to act as if nothing is different." He sighed. "I tire of this place."

"Come now; Paris isn't _all_ bad," Francis said from the front seat, "But judging by your remark, this isn't the first time you've been to Paris before."

"I've been a few times."

_Eight times we have you on the record, actually,_ Francis thought in his head, recalling information from his reading that morning._ This will be your ninth –quite more than a few if you ask me, Mr. Kirkland. _He smirked to himself. Francis was beginning to like Arthur even more. Arthur was fun. Tricky. Not at all another dope he had expected Boss to send him after, the ones who would sit in the back of his car and blab away like the cockiest bastards in the world, telling him whatever he asked for. It was clear to him Arthur was smarter than that.

Traffic had began to back up, and Francis could tell by looking out the window it would be a time before they got to the hotel –or even moved for that matter. He honked his horn a few times, throwing in a curse or two under his breath for good measure, hoping to give off the illusion that he was upset. In actuality, this was one of the few times Francis was glad that France had decided not to do away with cars like Italy and many other countries in Europe. He liked excuses to talk.

Francis fixed his hair before turning around in his seat, almost child-like, glancing back at Arthur. Just as before, he hardly seemed to notice. "You see, me on the other hand, I grew up in Paris. I've lived here my entire life, so these aren't just old buildings…I know them. It's like they're a part of me."

Arthur only looked away from the window for a moment.

"How touching."

"Hey, I'm just saying," Francis giggled slightly at Arthur's apathy, "Living in Paris your whole life, you learn a thing or two –the most relevant likely being that traffic sucks like Hell." He paused. No reaction. "Also…it becomes common knowledge that the Ritz is not a hotel for normal travelers by any means."

"If you've failed to notice, I don't think I fall under the umbrella of 'normal traveler,' Mister Bonnefoy."

"No, I gathered that." Francis let his arms rest on his knees, leaning forward anxiously. "All I'm saying is that you must work for a pretty high-end company."

"Well, I am a tea salesman, yes."

"Hah! A _tea salesman?"_ That was one juicy bit of information Francis hadn't gotten in the handout. "The fuck kind of a job is that? And in France, too!"

The brief eye contact they had established was broken after the comment. Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't have to justify my means of making a living to you."

He grinned. "Of course not. Bringing civilization to a crumbling country of tealess brutes…or something like that. It's a very nice creed if you ask me." The sudden twitch of Arthur's eyebrow let him know that he had hit it dead on. _I suppose that explains the shipment we were tracking to his hotel room,_ Francis pondered. _I'd bet anything that it was a big old box of tea, that crazy Britt. _The idea struck him as hysterical. He couldn't help but give a little laugh.

"You see, we normally don't get people like you around here."

"That shouldn't come as too much of a shock. You haven't exactly made us feel welcomed."

"Ah –touché." There was a cringe on Francis' face despite his playful tone. Tensions between France and the United Agency were approaching a climax at the moment. Everyone knew that. It was painful for Francis to realize that this shared hostility in the countries was partly of his doing. "I didn't really mean it like that, though," he persisted, trying to get his mind off the unpleasant thoughts. "I meant clever people. People who know what they're doing and aren't going to let anyone mess with that."

Arthur scoffed. He looked distressed as he caught Francis' eye purposely for the first time since they'd met, but for some reason, he still smiled…that lovely lopsided smile he'd seen before in the photograph. "That's one way of telling you and I just met, then; not even I know what I'm doing. A surface is an easy thing to read, Mister Bonnefoy. It's when you get to the contents that things become complicated."

What a strange thing to say, and yet, he was completely correct. Francis found himself almost hypnotized for a moment in the truth of Arthur's words. They stared at each other as if saying, "Don't worry; I understand what it feels like." The world was silent as he was sure Arthur was probing into his brain with those bright eyes, like he had already learned everything there was to know, figured out that they were exactly the same: a cracking shell with a million things inside to hide. Vulnerable.

And as soon as Arthur moved his eyes away, that moment of understanding ended.

Francis was shocked to hear an orchestra of bleating car horns as he turned his attention back to the wheel, now observing that the cars had long since started moving once more, the other automobiles waiting on him to get a move on. Automatically, he began to wonder how long they had sat there like that, and if that moment for Arthur had been as magical as it was for him. As petrifying.

The rest of the car ride was spent in silence, which was why Francis was particularly thankful that the build-up of vehicles was moving faster than before. Personally, he had never been to the Ritz; with his budget, Francis wasn't even allowed to _dream_ about going to the Ritz. Now as he circled the giant fountain at the entrance, parking the car in front of the main doors as instructed, he felt like he could know what it was like to live in Paris in its heyday –to experience the glamour and the elegance instead of the violence and suffering that so gruesomely replaced it.

Two men dressed in blue came to open both of the doors, bowing so low that their funny little hats looked about ready to fall off. Arthur acted completely normal, stepping out and walking past them and into the lobby straight on. Francis took the responsibility of thanking both of the men, tipping them out of his own pocket. He only continued on to follow Arthur once he had fetched the man's suitcase from the trunk of the car.

He could easily see why this place had been historically protected.

Inside everything looked too fancy to even breath on. Because of this, it came as no shock to Francis that Arthur was already slamming his hands down on the marble front desk, perched upon his tippy toes on the fancy blue and gold carpets. The clerk looked terribly startled.

Francis could no longer ignore the shouts as he approached the check-in desk. "What do you mean no English!? How do you bloody well expect to serve your customers if you can't speak the damn–" Arthur stopped almost instantaneously as Francis laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Would you like me to help?"

The man blushed bright red, embarrassed to admit that he needed assistance. Although he did not verbally ask, Arthur stepped aside, deciding that sitting down in one of the nice looking chairs would be much more useful at the moment while Francis handled all the French-speaking garbage.

"I'm sorry if he scared you," Francis consoled the woman in French, "He has a bad temper that sometimes becomes hard to control." He felt ridiculous quoting information from his reading.

The woman still appeared a bit lost. "Staff here isn't required to learn English, we're terribly sorry–"

Francis laughed in interruption. "Oh, don't be; it's a silly language anyway." He gave a wink which made the woman even more flustered, only now in a way to where she was calmed down. "Your heated British guest is Mr. Arthur Kirkland. He's here to check into his room."

"Oh wow. That's him?" The woman eyed Arthur with a jaundiced glare as she handed Francis the key. "I was wondering who could afford the Imperial Suite."

"_Th…the Imperial Suite?"_

She nodded. "Usually only people from out of the country rent out the room anyway, but an Englishman…"

Francis might have said something back to her before he turned and left, but he couldn't be certain. All he could do was stare down into his hands at the glimmering brass key that may as well have been the ticket into Heaven.

"You're staying in the Imperial Suite." It wasn't even a question.

Arthur bobbed his head in agreement as he escaped the plush jaws of the chair very slowly. "My last stay here was completely unsatisfactory."

"Unsatisfactory...!?"

"Stuck me in some dump room they thought a Britt would appreciate…Windsor something…"

Francis couldn't believe what he was hearing. A broom closet in this place was likely to be a nicer residence than his entire apartment, and here was Arthur, bashing some of the finest hotel rooms in Europe. But then again, Francis forced himself to keep his jaw from dropping; somehow he always went after men with expensive taste, and as far as lavish living went, Arthur took the prize.

When the bell boy came to fetch Arthur's bag, Francis told him that he had it handled. He knew that he would never get an opportunity to be in a place so snobbish again –especially with a man with as much money as Arthur appeared to have at his disposal to throw around as he pleased. He enjoyed being a plus one.

There came a point in the hallway where the glass cases holding treasures and other memorabilia tapered off, making room for two doors on either side of the hall. Arthur chose the one on the left, pressing a mid-sized button on the wall. It began to glow. Francis stared at the button and the man in complete bewilderment, wondering what on earth was going on.

_Wait,_ Francis thought, this situation suddenly becoming familiar. Right before he could object, the wall opened up, revealing a tiny well-lit square of a room, paneling on all sides.

He remembered elevators –very briefly– from when he was a child, but all he really recalled was how terrible they were, and that now they were supposed to be nothing more than a myth. After the mass drop in Switzerland back in 2103, every country was in a panic. Everyone still blamed Russia for hacking into the control systems, but in the end, who really knew? Point was that after the pointless quarrels back and forth, no technology was safe; anything could be used to kill it seemed. Still, here one was, Arthur walking onto the deathtrap's platform, pushing yet another button inside as he waited for Francis to board.

The doors shut swiftly after Francis stepped within, and he held his breath, mentally preparing himself for the next move. As the box lunged upward, he found himself clutching to the railings on the closest wall, knuckles turning white. Arthur watched him coolly from the other side of the elevator.

"Not a fan of technology I see."

Francis chuckled, his jumpiness breaking through his tone. "So you noticed; I thought all of these damn things were gone."

"Maybe here," he said to him, the elevator coming to a sudden stop, the small light above the door ticking from a G to a 1. The doors reopened. "You'd be surprised by how many you find in England." And with that, he walked right back out into the hotel.

Arthur wandered down the walkway, inspecting the doors and taking in the surroundings until he came upon the door he needed at the end of the hall: the Imperial Suite. Without a word, he held out a hand for the key. Francis turned it over to him, although feeling reluctant. Now that he had his land legs back, he figured another go at more action and less conversation was called for.

"So, now that we know each other a bit more," he began as Arthur fiddled with the skeleton in the lock, "Maybe we could have that drink." He could tell by the way Arthur's shoulders spiked that he was annoyed before a single word passed his lips. Francis felt that giving up easy was not an option with this one.

"Well, I'm not sure if–"

The man's voice trailed off to nothing the moment Francis' hands were laid on Arthur's sides. He ran his palms down to his hips, rubbing them lightly. He ignored the risk of whispering in his ear. "You Britts are all about hospitality; it'd be rude not to invite me in for a minute."

A noise escaped Arthur's mouth which was somewhere between an irritated grunt and a whimper, although he knew he was stronger than this –stronger than to let himself be seduced –no, not seduced. Harassed. There was absolutely no way he was being seduced.

"How…_terribly improper of you,_" Arthur finally managed to put into words. In one smooth motion, he turned around in Francis' grasp, laying his hands on the invader's chest. Once Arthur noticed his touch had lingered for too long, he pushed the man away with force, at last allowing himself to be angry now that he lacked the parasite clinging to his side.

Arthur swiped the suitcase off the floor where Francis had left it. "How dare you assume I would invite someone as lowly as you into my quarters," he snapped. "The English are _not_ all about hospitality –if anything it's etiquette we hold in highest esteem. I'd toss a man as revolting as yourself back onto the streets without a second thought because you sir, have no manners!" Francis stood blank-faced as Arthur entered the room and slammed the door dramatically. Before Francis could even move, the door was opened once more, Arthur peeking out at him one last time.

"And I lied earlier. Your suit is tacky. And I hate you."

The door shut, a final nail in the coffin, leaving Francis alone in the still of the hallway.

* * *

_The Walk -Imogen Heap_

_J'y Suis Jamais Allé -Yann Tiersen _


	3. The Sad Days

Arthur stood fossilized with the door against his back, listening carefully to the footsteps now disappearing down the hallway behind him.

That was close.

Literally. Too close.

A hand clutched to his rapidly rising and falling chest while he told himself to calm down. Arthur wasn't so sure why he was so shook up about it; it wasn't as if he hadn't ever been hit on by a bloke or two back home at the pub. But that...that shouldn't have been any different. As he ran his fingers through his bangs, he heard a little voice in his head whisper, _It's not as if you'll ever see him again._ And honestly, Arthur wasn't sure why he felt as if he was ever going to see him again at all in the first place.

Francis..._strange man._

_...Stupid Frenchie. _

He figured Francis had left by then, so there was no use in standing by the door any longer being worrisome. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his tie and walked his luggage over to a chair pushed under the dining table. The front room was rather large and open –extravagant, the sofas and posh coffee tables on one side with the dining area on the other. He assumed the kitchen was behind the door on the left corresponding with the table, and the bedroom past the right by the sofas. He had also rented out a bathroom, presumably somewhere within the bedroom; of course, he had enough money for all six of the rooms, but that would be a waste considering they would be put to zero use.

Arthur would never admit that the place was actually nice. That would mean defeat.

Instead, as he walked into the master bedroom, he gave a satisfied grunt in place of the running jump he desperately wanted to execute onto the exact replica of Marie Antoinette's bed. Arthur's work was all about control –his whole life even. Everyone always expected him to be the strong one, the one to be serious. That bored him oftentimes, but of course duty is duty…

It was then that the box finally came to his attention.

For a crate sent on delivery, the thing was rather large. It sat on the right side of the bed, a piece of paper with the hotel insignia lying under a small mint. Arthur sighed. He should have expected this from the time he even mentioned leaving home. If anything, the only thing these horrid business trips were good for was leaving his problems behind in the confines of the United Agency. And yet, they still managed to follow him everywhere. What a pity.

Each person has their own individual way of dealing with stress. Some people sleep it off, while others scream into a pillow or paint a picture. But for Arthur, there was only one way to escape the pains he experienced in reality anymore. It came in the form of a music box.

He took it out from the front pocket of his suitcase, wrapped carefully in bubble wrap to keep it from becoming damaged. Giving the knob a good wind, he listened to the melancholy tinklings that filled the air, watching a tiny procession of horses march around the carousel.

In another life, it had been a present from his brothers.

Arthur missed his home –not the one where he sat alone surrounded by his boar heads and tapestries…his childhood home when the Kirkland's were still together as a family before everyone decided feuding was the only appropriate way to solve their problems, eventually fleeing in their separate directions.

As he would learn, longing for the past was a useless thing.

He felt calmer now that the familiar music was filling his ears, and decided to tackle the trial before him. The letter atop the box was tossed to the side; Arthur only kept the chocolate for a later snack. As for the crate, he could already expect what was to be inside. He would pull off the lid to see two familiar faces smiling up at him, assorted sentiments from home gathered underneath. Most of them would be nice if not convenient, but that picture…

Arthur held it now in the round blue frame, only inches away from his nose. The first smile belonged to his younger brother Peter –the black sheep of his family that had been cast out and forgotten for years until Arthur took the responsibility of moving him back into a respectable home. Peter used to boast about the luxuries of living a peaceful existence on the abandoned fort all the Kirkland boys used to traverse as children, but as the chaos of the world picked up more and more, the naval base became rather dangerous. His older brothers resented him for allowing Peter to live with him, but it was something he had to do. Now, every time Arthur left home, his brother was sure to send him a whole bloody box of things he must have "forgotten" and simply couldn't live without.

The second smile? His own. One Arthur would rather swipe clean from all memory.

He shuffled through the rest of the care package, searching for anything useful. A can opener, a spare set of boxers, a hairbrush…was this the sweater Peter gave him at Christmas last year? Arthur sighed, setting all the useless junk aside until he reached the bottom.

-Where his fingers brushed against something cold and familiar.

Without even looking inside, his fingers wrapped around one of the small boxes and pulled it out to see. Just as he thought, he was face to face with a whole tin of his favorite brand of tea. Not only that, but the whole bottom of the crate was lined with them. Taking notice of a folded piece of paper, Arthur used his other hand to grab the sheet as well. He unfolded it and read the words closely.

_Brother, _

_I don't doubt that you've forgotten all about your cover as well as your unseemly addiction. But not to worry! I bought more than enough tea to last you for the entire trip, providing that you don't drink four cups a day. Good luck, and come home safe! Sincerely Always, _

_ ~Peter_

_P.S. How do you keep forgetting your picture when I leave it out on the counter every time? If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you're leaving it on purpose! _

So the little squirt had finally caught on. Arthur couldn't help but to allow the smile rising on his lips to become visible. While it was true that he hated his brother –that had never been in question– it was at times like this that he began to wonder why. The boy was dashing and sweet, caring to the point that it could make some people vomit.

But then again, perhaps that was why. He was naïve, a child, and convinced the world was still a playground despite what the telly told him. In some ways, Arthur envied this quality in Peter, but the larger half of his opinion only wished that he would just grow up already.

After setting the picture frame on the nightstand, Arthur went over to the nearest window and threw it open, deciding quickly that he would need some fresh air to clear his head. Looking at the vast view before him, he could easily spot the Eifel Tower in the distance, countless cars undoubtedly whizzing past the now forgotten landmark.

Paris…the great City of Lights. He laughed at the thought.

This place had remained dimmer than any other city for over a century. Not one of the bulbs that had once lit up the tower's surface with majestic colors had seen use for as long as anyone could remember. If there hadn't been any photographic evidence as proof, no one would have believed such a spectacle ever existed.

This was one of sure signs that all the work of the Agency was pointless.

He gave a somewhat depressed chuckle, aiding the light wind in pushing his hair back by brushing his bangs away with an absentminded hand.

What did he think he was doing anyway…? Helping to restore the world to some sort of former glory? Even he of all people knew that despite all the hard work, all the missions and the attempts to break up the Alliance, this world was lost forever. If by some means, the Agency even _did _find some way to break the Alliance's chains once and for all, what could be done then? Restoration of countless countries would take decades, possibly even another century. No, he had known it from the start. This was the present, it had been the past, and it would always be the future. A solution the the quarrels of this garbage heap of a planet would never come.

And yet, he still wasted every godforsaken moment of his life trying...Why did he keep trying?

_Suddenly, it was six months ago, and he was sitting at the dinner table with Peter, fiddling around by pushing food across his plate instead of eating. His appetite had been long gone ever since his visit to Russia…conditions were even worse than before. The boy could see the distress on his brother's face almost as if it had manifested itself into physical form. He sat down his fork, whipped his mouth on a napkin, and spoke the first words since Arthur's return. _

_"You know…what you're doing is quite noble." _

_The knife Arthur had been using to slide his broccoli around the plate came to a halt. It was impossible to stop himself from glaring up at Peter before resigning his gaze back to the full platter before him. _

_"That's ridiculous." _

_"No, it's really not," Peter said, a fussy tone in his voice that Arthur wasn't used to hearing. Hardly ever did his brother have the nerve to mouth off to him. "No one thanks you for what you do, or even recognizes that it's important. It seems everyone else has given up…as if leaving the world in shambles is okay and we can all go on just as jolly as before." Peter's voice softened. "The United Agency may not be as united as it once was, but you're still here. You're the only one who hasn't stopped trying." _

_The words echoed in his brain, convincing Arthur this simply had to be some kind of hallucination, that such words had never escaped his little brother's mouth. Was it true that maybe he was making a difference..? Maybe the fruits of his labor would never show during his life time, but this small boy before him…_

_The world could be better for his generation. Arthur could make a difference. _

Sometimes, his brother's words all those months ago seemed to be the only thing keeping him going, the only thought stopping him from turning in his two-week notice. Arthur slumped against his fist, allowing all the weight to rest on his right arm as he continued to study the sky.

"It's utterly mad," he spoke aloud to no one but the toxic city before him, "but for your sake, I guess one final operation is worth a shot."

* * *

_Ride -Lana Del Rey_

_Les Jours Tristes -Yann Tiersen_


	4. The Rat

_Nothing? That's seriously what you expect me to believe? _

_Sir, if I've already told you that he wasn't exactly a wealth of information then yes, I do._

_Fucking tea salesman…my ass. He's been to only two locations for the past week; I don't think anyone here wants that much to drink. Which means that we have more than one problem on our hands._

_Meaning?_

_Meaning, if he's going to a conference location, there's more than one of them. That we have a serious Agency infestation on our hands that's been sitting right under our noses._

_It wouldn't be the first time._

_Don't remind me; which is why you're going to do something about it._

_Okay, shoot._

_In more than one sense of the word, Arthur is a rat. And what do rats do?_

_Eat…garbage?_

_Oh God –don't ask why I ever counted on you to understand a complex metaphor...Rats, are thieves. And rats, stay together as one big dirty colony. So if Arthur is a rat–_

_-Then he can lead us to the nest._

_Bingo. Find a rat. Follow a rat. Find the whole shebang._

_Well, in theory, this is an easy enough plan, but finding the rat is the most difficult step. I can't exactly just throw out some cheese and expect for him to come running._

_Don't act as if you've never used yourself as the cheese before._

_…_

_Look, you found him once, you can find him again; if you have to be the cheese in order for that to happen, then by all means, do it. After all, playing with rats is what you do best, isn't it Francis?_

_…I'll give contact once I've got him. Keep that head of yours on straight until then; crazy doesn't suit you._

_click._

Francis took a deep breath as he placed the phone back on the wall, rubbing his tired eyes with a single hand. Before he could let himself look any more distressed, he turned around to address the lady who worked the counter.

"Thank you again for the use of your phone," he said in French, "my friends are the kind to be rather picky about when I call." He gave her one of his killer smiles.

The young girl blushed. "Oh, it's not a problem, really! Be sure to let me know if you ever need it again."

"Of course," he said while grabbing her hand, bringing it to his lips for a light kiss. She giggled at the gesture. All were clay, simply waiting to be molded in Francis' hands, manipulated to whatever whim or fancy he felt the day suited. It was a rather useful skill, one he used quite often.

But, it was the warming up of the clay to make it malleable that he wasn't too proud of.

He left the girl behind the counter as he walked back to his small café table, the smile disappearing in an instant. He didn't even like women, and yet, he still played with them like dolls to get whatever he desired, using their natural attraction to him as a priceless advantage. He would grin, give a flip of his hair, and that was all it took; any words that came waterfalling out of his mouth, any request he gave was sure to be met amicably. Boss marveled at this gift, and asked Francis to use it often, as it helped to get the Alliance past many doors that would have formally been closed and locked tight.

It didn't feel right.

Which is why he got to thinking about Arthur.

Actually, Arthur had practically been the only thing on his mind all week, despite the sudden crash that had brought their time together to an abrupt end. Francis pulled out the photograph he had continued to keep in his pocket as he sunk into the chair. What secrets were behind those bright green eyes? He wanted to know them all, read him like a book –not for Boss or for the good of the Alliance, but for his own selfish pleasure. It was strange to feel like this, because Francis couldn't think of a time when he had actually wanted someone as his own.

He was bored of playing with people; Francis felt like a child who had finally grown up, looking around his room at all the toys that used to provide him with endless hours of amusement while he was younger, but had now lost their sparkle. The time had finally come to move on from play-things…he was sure of it now.

The next time he saw Arthur, he wouldn't be hitting on him or trying to earn a place in his heart just because he thought he was some rat who needed a slice of cheese. In fact, Francis, no matter how hard it was going to be, would attempt to keep all of those things to a minimum. He wanted Arthur's respect and trust first, a sure-fire way to get him to open up his mind to thinking of Francis as more than "that one crazy Frenchie who drove me to my hotel and then tried to get me drunk to make for easy sex."

That scenario had its run one too many times. For one of the first times in his life, he craved a change.

The last drops of coffee were drained from the bottom of his cup, disappointed once he realized the thing was empty. _That's that, _Francis thought to himself, picking the morning paper up off the table in preparation to leave. He tossed his cup into a waste bin by the door, gave the bright-faced girl a final wave, and walked out into the warm morning sun. He had plenty of work to get to, and considering who it involved, there was no time to waste.

As he walked down the sidewalk to his car, Francis realized an important piece of the puzzle he neglected to recognize or even think about it the slightest: he wasn't even sure Arthur swung that way.

Sure, he had made assumptions, mostly because he had never met a person who _wasn't _attracted to him. Arthur could say he didn't have feelings for him all he wanted, and it wouldn't make a difference. Francis had read the slight nuances and hints that lied entangled with his actions from the moment the two of them had been introduced. The way he had beamed at him when they first made a connection, the way he forced himself to keep his eyes away from Francis almost constantly, the soft palm that had rested against his chest during a firm refusal…all were sure signs that by playing the right moves and keeping the correct conditions, he'd be holding Francis' hand and begging for them to spend long evenings together before Arthur even knew what hit him.

A true smile was on his face this time, showing no chances of fading as he slipped into the driver's seat. Francis started the engine and pulled out into the road, ready to take the day by storm.

* * *

_"Hey, I'm just saying," Francis giggled slightly at Arthur's apathy, "Living in Paris your whole life, you learn a thing or two –the most relevant likely being that traffic sucks like Hell."_

The thought entered his mind as Francis tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, filling the car with an impatient melody. When he was by himself, Francis imagined that he hated cars a lot. The time spent sitting for any sign of motion coming on the horizon was so dull without someone else to help fill the seconds. He was so frustrated that all Francis wanted to do now was end his day's work entirely, go home, sit down with a glass of cheep wine and maybe a snack, drowning out his thoughts and feelings like he did more often than not. Sometimes, it was at moments like this that he remembered how painful it felt like to be alive. Any motivation of his always seemed to be fleeting.

Automobiles finally began to stir out of their slumber from far in front of him, allowing him to breath a sigh of relief. As soon as his turn to travel came, he hit the gas pedal and started to get a move on. Francis made a soft noise before expressing himself aloud. "Don't you love how whenever you're trying to get something done everyone and their brother decides to-"

-That face.

Was it?

No, it couldn't possibly be.

Before Francis even gave himself the time to confirm or deny, he slammed on his breaks and threw the car into reverse, trying desperately to edge into a parking spot. Multiple car horns went off behind him, echoing off the sides of buildings and increasing their noise. Francis ignored them the best he could, not bothering to apologize in the slightest, because Arthur Kirkland himself was making his way down the sidewalk beside him, staring with a desperate expression at the pocket watch in his hand.

Flinging himself out of the car door, Francis nearly tripped over his own feet as he scrambled off the road. Why must he walk so fast..? He was surprised that after a good thirty seconds of tailing him, Francis could finally land a hand on the man's shoulder.

At first the Britt seemed to ignore him, as if the thing was only a bug buzzing around his ear that he chose to pay no attention to. Soon enough Francis' grip was so strong that it forced Arthur to stop walking, making him acknowledge that there was indeed someone clinging to him rather insistently. He spun around without a word.

He looked at Francis with wide eyes, only taking a moment to register just who it was in front of him. No, this couldn't be...the two of them had parted days ago, and Arthur had been very adamant in the fact that it would be the first and last time they ever met. It didn't matter that the...experience...the two of them had still lingered in the back of his brain; it was the part he'd been desperately trying to ignore, forget in its entirety.

But once again, here he was, that same self-satisfied smirk on his face, as if he had Arthur right where he wanted him.

Too bad he didn't care.

"No, come on, wait!" Arthur tried his best to block out the shout, clenching his jaw as he pushed through the thick crowd.

"I don't have time for you -or anyone right now!" he shot back. "If you haven't noticed, I'm running late."

"That's why I want to help!" Francis fought towards him again, managing to grab Arthur by the wrist. "Just let me give you a ride; you'll get there a lot sooner, I promise."

He stopped, looked into those glittering blue eyes. He had his doubts about Francis, and definitely his dislikes, but he also had his unanswered questions, things that made him curious. And there was something strange about the aura Francis gave off; there was magic hidden beneath those golden locks and his Mediterranean stare, a strange sensation that made Arthur go numb no matter how hard he tried to fight it, making all of his pain and worries fade into nothing. At the same time, it made him a bit nervous. No matter how much first instinct had told himself the man was an inconsiderate brute and a lustful moron, Arthur couldn't help but feel there was so much more underneath this odd sort of costume Francis seemed to wear.

It was only a car...no corners, a door on every side to escape if need be...the gains appeared to easily outweigh the dangers.

Arthur finally gave in.

"Well...you better damn well know how to make it through this traffic."

* * *

For many blocks the car was silent, the only disturbances in the air being the noises of the bustling city outside their concealed space.

Normally Francis was a master at striking up conversation, but due to the fact that Arthur had chosen to settle down in the passenger seat instead of somewhere in the back made him feel like less of a chauffeur and more like a teenage boy driving a girl on their first date. It was hardly anything special -he was taking the man to a meeting, not a fancy restaurant or the theater. He guessed that having Arthur this close to him at all again was a sufficient equivalent.

Right when Francis gathered enough courage to speak up, Arthur decided to go first.

"I'm...sorry." The words stuck to the sides of his throat, almost as if refusing to be heard. He wasn't used to apologizing to anyone, for anything he did. "I wasn't trying to be rude the other day when you helped me, really I was...startled is all, I guess. I could have handled myself better."

Francis gave a laugh of disbelief, trying his hardest not to loose focus at the wheel. _Arthur _was the one saying he was sorry, when Francis was the one who did everything wrong to earn the yelling he'd been given. Still, he would take the peace offering. "It's fine, don't think anything of it. I was-"

"I don't do well with people," Arthur said, too deep in thought to stop himself for whatever Francis had to say. "Pushing them away is all I've ever been good at, and it's started to bother me. So, I'm sorry that I lashed out on you."

"No, you had good reason. I was out of my place."

Arthur shook his head. "I've never had a drink with a lady or a fellow, even if it was just as friends. I guess...I don't have any. Never considered getting any either. It's not you, I only...I don't know how to react properly. People have always been dangerous; there's no one out there to trust."

Hearing all that Arthur had told him, Francis was shocked to say the least, but overjoyed. Arthur hadn't acted that way because he hated him, more because he'd never interacted with people in such a way. It was hard to imagine this hot-blooded Englishman to be timid in any aspect taking into account what Francis had learned and seen of him so far. Regardless, Arthur's concerns were something he could understand and even respect. As a member of the Alliance, he knew how hard it was to lead a normal life, how difficult it became to meet people, maintain friendships...adding in dating as a factor was insanity, which is why Francis figured all of his "relationships" on the romantic level were classified more on the one-night-stand end of the spectrum. The Agency, being as strict as it was bound to be, no doubt put Arthur struggling through even worse conditions than himself.

Francis realized they had arrived at their destination all too quickly: a tall white building sandwiched between the others like a layer of a cake. Pulling over and stopping the car, Francis rested a hand on Arthur's arm before he thought to make a move for the door. Francis looked at him, for the first time in awhile, his gaze and tone in complete seriousness.

"If anything at all, I'm your friend." A smile suddenly cracked through Francis' demeanor. "Hell, it'd be amazing to even be considered an acquaintance, but...know that it's impossible to be alone, even when it feels like the universe is empty."

He sat motionless, glancing down at Francis' hand on his arm. Arthur wasn't sure whether to take what this man was saying and throw it out the window and write it off as just another way to gain a physical advance, or treat it as what his heart told him it was. It was hard to think that anyone could be comforting him, trying to make him feel better. Before now, no one had ever acted as if he deserved that. All he could do was nod, speechless.

Francis patted his arm and then proceeded to remove his hand, knowing that this time he wanted to leave the right impression. "If you'd like, maybe I could actually take you out, sit down and have a drink together. It'd be good to break that ugly record of yours -get you headed down the right path, if anything."

Thinking about it for a moment, Arthur opened the door, pausing before stepping out. He didn't know what he was doing, but he knew that if he was going to survive much longer, he needed to change. The way he was living wasn't enough. Days were empty and meaningless, filled with work and little of anything else. Stepping out onto a ledge was the only option that was left, whether that be one to jump off of or one leading on to somewhere better, he couldn't be for sure.

At least he had made up his mind to try. "Maybe if you're here to pick me up around five, I'd consider it."

With that, Arthur gave Francis a weak smile, and headed out into the sea of human specimens, entering into the building without a second glance back.

It was true that Francis would go home immediately, give Boss a call and tell him that the rat had made it to his nest safe and sound thanks to the assistance of a certain Frenchman. He would give him an address as well as surrounding locations, along with any other details he so desired. He might even tell him that the rat had nibbled a little bit at that cheese they had talked about earlier. He would tell him all that he wanted...but Francis was no longer a trap.

And he intended to keep it that way.

* * *

_La Valse d'Amelie -Yann Tiersen_

_Clutter -Ronald Jenkees _

_I must say, thank you everyone who is supporting this story! I don't update as quickly as I should, but I am trying my hardest. _

_This chapter is the last one that's going to have a slower pace for now, as the next one will pick up with some action. I hope you stick around to see what's in store for these two and hopefully fit a few more pieces into the puzzle. _


End file.
